


Everything I ever did, was just another way to scream your name

by Stegaysaurus



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Croissants, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, M/M, just a little romance, post armageddon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-09 16:47:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 760
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19891093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Stegaysaurus/pseuds/Stegaysaurus
Summary: Snow comes down heavy, covering the countryside like a blanket of frigid white, and two figures stroll idly down the gradually disappearing road, apparently unaffected by the weather. Children have yet to get out of school, and so the neighborhood is silent, pristine around them. One holds a cup of steaming hot chocolate in one hand, the other a paper bag from a bakery, and between them their intertwined hands sway in time with their perfectly asynchronous steps.





	Everything I ever did, was just another way to scream your name

**Author's Note:**

> this is shorter than my usual writing but i love winter and just needed to indulge a lil bit.
> 
> title is a reference to [ South London Forever ](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lua-N4OrPKA) by Florence + the Machine.

Snow comes down heavy, covering the countryside like a blanket of frigid white, and two figures stroll idly down the gradually disappearing road, apparently unaffected by the weather. Children have yet to get out of school, and so the neighborhood is silent, pristine around them. One holds a cup of steaming hot chocolate in one hand, the other a paper bag from a bakery, and between them their intertwined hands sway in time with their perfectly asynchronous steps.

“You know, angel,” says the one with the bakery bag, a thick knitted scarf covering him up to the cherry-red tip of his nose and muffling his words, “We could’ve driven there, or even miracled the bloody things up at home.”

“Yes, well, I thought it would be a nice walk for us, my dear. Winter is quite gorgeous, in its own right,” the angel responds patiently, bringing his companion’s hand up to his lips to press a tender kiss to the little gold band around his ring finger. “Don’t you agree? Crowley?”

Crowley hums something vaguely like assent, face tucked further into his scarf than it had been a minute before. His fingers flex slightly in the spaces between his angel’s, and Aziraphale wishes he wasn’t wearing his sunglasses.

“You could’ve stayed home, I know you don’t like the cold. I’m sorry, love,” Aziraphale murmurs, thumb rubbing over the back of his hand as they fall back to swinging between them. Crowley glances over at him, the paper bag rustling as his fingers clench tighter around it.

“Nah, the house is too quiet, without you,” he says casually, turning to look at the trees across the street for maximum unaffected-ness. ( _ I get lonely when you aren’t there, I worry when you’re away, I cherish these moments with you and wouldn’t trade them for anything, _ he does not say, but Aziraphale hears this anyways).

“Of course, my dear,” Aziraphale hums happily, a little grin on his face that makes Crowley’s heart speed up a little bit. Hell, six millennia and he still can’t handle this angel. Their little cottage comes into view, its front garden obscured almost completely by the accumulating snow. Aziraphale takes a little sip of his cocoa as they approach the door, and loosens his grip on Crowley’s hand to open the door. Before his fingertips even brush the doorknob, a hand on his shoulder is turning him to the side. He barely has time to register Crowley’s eyes looking at him from over the rims of his sunglasses, his scarf pulled down below his chin and his breath coming out in little puffs of white, before his lips are occupied with something ever so slightly more interesting than picking apart the storm of emotion that Crowley tended to harbour inside him at all times. The winter chill nips at their cheeks, but Aziraphale’s fingers are warm and gentle where they come up to cup Crowley’s jaw, and he feels a little burst of ethereal energy explode out from the angel as he pulls him closer on their doorstep. He tastes, unsurprisingly, like hot cocoa and the little candy cane he’d gotten from a basket at the bakery, and Crowley can’t help but think that tastes a little bit like  _ home _ , a little bit like  _ safety _ , a little bit like  _ no matter what happens, we are eternal _ .

They’re both smiling when they pull away, soft and fond and just for them, before Crowley sees the way their front garden has bloomed from beneath the snow, colour exploding past the white in a way that would’ve taken Crowley days, perhaps even weeks, of shouting in good weather. He tries to scowl at his angel, tries to look somewhat disapproving at this seemingly accidental little miracle (that was  _ his fault _ , really, he’d had the bright idea to kiss Aziraphale on the doorstep like that). Aziraphale pops up onto his toes before Crowley can get a word out about it, brushing their noses together in a tender little movement that steals all the breath from Crowley’s lungs before pushing open the front door and stepping inside.

“Don’t forget to take your shoes off, darling, you’ll track in snow. And do hurry, the croissants will get cold!”

“They’re already bloody cold, we walked back,” Crowley grumbles, but he kicks his shoes off obediently.

And if he sends a little suggestive occult energy out and places down a bag of perfectly warm croissants on the kitchen table, well, who’s really any the wiser? (Aziraphale is, and it brings a little smile to his face).


End file.
